He’d come too far in this quest to let it go now. He couldn’t allow Sharon—or anyone else—to get in his way of finding the truth. Once he had his answers, it would be entirely up to him to decide what to do with them. He had told himself he didn’t really care who got hurt when the truth came out. As badly as he’d been hurt during his lifetime, he deserved to have his payback.
But being around Sharon made him question his actions and his motives. Made him begin to wonder if some things were more important than revenge.
He definitely needed some time away from her.
Lost in his thoughts of Sharon, it took him a moment to notice the deep gouge that ran down the driver’s side of his truck. It was a long, ugly scratch that ran from fender to fender, cutting through the black paint to reveal the gray metal beneath. Deliberately inflicted—most likely with a nail, a knife or some equally sharp object. It had not been there when he’d parked the truck barely forty-five minutes earlier.
Whoever had done this had known exactly what sort of damage he was doing. And who he was doing it to. Mac had no doubt that nearly everyone in this nosy little town recognized his truck by now.
La
st time he’d been in Honoria, he’d rented two different dark, nondescript cars, hoping he could learn something about the McBrides without calling attention to himself. Of course, he hadn’t realized then just how little actually went by without notice in this town, how the slightest change from the ordinary was cause for suspicion. He’d almost been accused of stalking Annie Stewart, when it had actually been Trent McBride he’d been observing. It had taken some glib talking on his part to get him out of that one, having to convince Trent that he had been looking to hire him for the renovation team, not keeping an eye on him or his girlfriend.
On this trip, he’d driven his own functional black pickup with its distinctive markings and chrome accessories. And now it had been deliberately targeted…
Hearing running footsteps, he whirled just in time to see someone disappear around a corner down the street. Someone who’d probably been hiding in an alley or behind another vehicle when Mac went past.
Someone who very strongly resembled Brad Henderson.
“Dammit,” he muttered and whipped his cell phone out of his pocket. He punched in Sharon’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked without bothering to identify himself.
She sounded puzzled. “He has a ball game this evening, but he’s having dinner first with the rest of his team. Why?”
“Where are they having dinner?”
“Probably at the new soda shop on Maple Street. They all like the burgers and shakes there. What’s this all about, Mac?”
The soda shop was only a few blocks away from Cora’s Café. There was no doubt that Brad could easily have walked the distance. He might even have had someone with him; just because Mac had seen only one boy didn’t mean there hadn’t been more who’d slipped away unnoticed. “My mistake,” he said to Sharon. “I thought I saw Brad, but I must have been wrong.”
She didn’t buy his glib explanation. “Mac?”
“Don’t worry about it, okay? Sorry I disturbed you.”
“But—”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. G’night, Sharon.” He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, trying to determine his next move.
“What happened here?”
Mac turned, and recognized the man who had spoken as one of the police officers he’d met the night Sharon had been run off the road. Dolan? Dobbins? Dodson, he remembered. “Evening, Officer.”
The other man, who looked to be about Mac’s age, closed the door of the aging SUV he’d just climbed out of. “I’m on my way to dinner at Cora’s, but I see you’ve got a problem here. Anything I can do?”
Mac glanced at the gouge and shook his head, irritated all over again. “No, thanks.”
“You’ll be wanting to make a police report, I imagine. That scratch looks like it was put there on purpose. Have you already made yourself some enemies in town, Mr. Cordero?”
“Not as far as I know. There’s no need for you to make a report, Officer. I can handle this.”
“Now, don’t you go trying to handle trouble like this on your own. I know you were once a big-city detective, but me and Wade are the law around here.”
It was all Mac could do not to grimace. Was the guy trying to sound like a bad movie stereotype of a Southern-hick cop? If so, he was doing a hell of a good job. “I said I’ll take care of it, Officer. But thanks for the advice.”
Dodson shrugged. “Suit yourself. Guess I’ll go have my dinner, then.”
“The coconut pie is especially good this evening,” Mac said genially.